


It's in the Mail

by FancyFree2813



Series: Layers (originally named The Goofy Mountie Series [19]
Category: due South
Genre: Angst, F/M, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27235777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyFree2813/pseuds/FancyFree2813
Summary: Another Bolt crashes into their lives, but misses his primary target and finds Renfield instead.
Relationships: Benton Fraser/Margaret Thatcher, Ray Kowalski/Other(s), Renfield Turnbull/Kerri
Series: Layers (originally named The Goofy Mountie Series [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954873
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	It's in the Mail

It was a beautifully sunny spring morning. Birds sang in the trees and the air was heady with the fragrance of newly blossoming hyacinth. The hopeful feeling of impending rebirth hung all around him as Constable Turnbull walked the short distance from his apartment in the bookshop to his posting at the Canadian Consulate.

He whistled some mindless, happy tune as he smiled and greeted the few people he passed on the sidewalk. This was his favorite time of day, the sun was warm, but not yet hot. He had grown up in Vancouver where the average temperature was approximately 14C, so sometimes the Chicago heat overwhelmed him. But it would not do so today. The weather lady on the radio had said the high was expected to be 70 degrees, and whether you calculated that in Celsius or left it Fahrenheit, it was perfect for a man who was used to the temperate weather on the Canadian West Coast.

He also loved this time of day because he would be alone in the Consulate for a short time. Oh, he cared deeply for the people he worked with, but he found it so much easier to concentrate on the tasks assigned to him when he could work on them without interruption. Many people still assumed he was just a vacuous simpleton because he could be easily distracted. But Renfield knew that to be untrue, he was not unintelligent, he had just always found it hard to focus with a lot of things going on around him. That was why he loved the quiet, cool atmosphere of the Consulate in the early morning.

As the morning progressed, however, Renfield found that the sunny weather outside did not at all mirror the mood of the others inside the Consulate. His cheery welcoming of 'good morning, Sir!' was greeted with a curt nod from Constable Fraser, and with what could be best described as a growl from Inspector Thatcher. Undeterred, throughout the early morning Turnbull did all manner of little, helpful things to try to raise the spirits of his superiors.

Finally, only shortly after Inspector Thatcher arrived for work, she became exasperated, and threw him out of her office. “Turnbull!” she grumbled, “your little Miss Mary Sunshine attitude is going to drive me batty. Get out of here and go bother someone else!”

“Sorry, Sir,” he whispered as he hung his head and retreated to his desk. 

But, within a few minutes, Renfield had regained his positive outlook. A quick phone call to Kerri, his wife, just to hear her voice and tell her he loved her, had helped him concentrate on what was important to him - and why he was glad to be alive.

He was lost in thought just after hanging up the phone when the front door opened.

______________________________________________

“Top 'o the mornin' ta ya, Constable!” the man in the blue uniform said as he walked the short distance to Turnbull's desk.

“And top of the morning to you too, Mr. O'Leary.” Turnbull looked at the large armload of mail the letter carrier had for them. “Oh, my! That will keep me busy for quite some time.”

O'Leary laughed. “Well, it's kept me busy sortin' it all mornin', now it's yer tern. Ya make sure ya get out an enjoy this wunerful sunshine taday,” he called as he went out the door.

“You have a nice day too!” Renfield was once again heartened that he wasn't the only one in a good mood on this lovely Spring day.

He looked down at the huge pile of mail and sighed. Well, at least he'd have something to take his mind off of the Inspector and Fraser's bad moods and, if he dealt with Constable Fraser’s mail too, something to occupy him for the rest of the morning.

Opening and sorting the mail did indeed take him the rest of the morning. Some letters he carefully slit open with his prized silver RCMP letter opener read and then filed, some he placed in a tidy stack for the Inspector's approval, some he placed in another neat pile to be routed first to Constable Fraser and then to the Inspector. He would deal with paying the large number of bills, what with this being the first of the month, after lunch. In addition to the large number of magazines and catalogs, there was also a package for the Inspector from her sister. Renfield set that aside with a shudder. The last time he had given her any mail from her family she had been in a foul mood for two weeks.

Almost to the bottom of the pile, Renfield debated whether or not to go to lunch before sorting the last of the mail. He decided that it would be wiser to distribute all of it and then beat a hasty retreat, so he opted to postpone lunch for awhile.

One of the last pieces he picked up was a small, tan padded envelope. He thought briefly that it looked rather odd. Rather than metered postage, it had several US Statue of Liberty stamps on the top right hand corner, and no postmark to give any indication where it had been mailed. The really odd thing was that the stamps were placed on the envelope upside down. The address was handwritten to Constable Fraser. It was not marked personal, and the markings on the front gave him no indication that it was private. The fact that there was no return address also seemed strange to him, but he ignored the small niggling at the back of his mind and proceeded to open the envelope.

Rather than being sealed with the self-adhesive tab, the envelope was stapled closed, and when he pulled at the staples one of them pricked his finger. "Drat!" he muttered as he sucked the tiny droplet of blood from his finger.

“Constable, Detective Kowalski is picking me up and we are going to be out until late this afternoon. Please take any calls.” Fraser said as he passed Turnbull on his way out the door.

“Ah, Sir? What about your mail? I – ”

Fraser sighed impatiently. “I appreciate your opening it for me, but I don't have time for that now. Just put it on my desk and I'll go through it later.” If Renfield hadn't known better he would have thought that Fraser had snapped at him.

Renfield sighed. Such a beautiful day, such a wonderful day to be alive, and everyone at the Consulate was in such a vile mood. Everyone except him, of course.

Having temporarily forgotten the envelope, he finally turned back to his task at hand. Gingerly reaching into the envelope, doing his best to avoid the large number of staples, he pulled out a single sheet of lined paper folded in quarters. 

He stared, confused, at the tiny emblem drawn on the unfolded sheet, and the one word written above it. The emblem was one of a lightning bolt and the one word was 'gotcha'.

______________________________________________________

Renfield knew that he should report the strange envelope to his superiors. He also knew when to avoid Inspector Thatcher. And since Fraser was gone until who knew when, he decided that discretion was the better part of valor and keeping one's mouth shut usually meant that one didn't get yelled at for being stupid. Of late, the Inspector spent most of her days with her door closed anyway, so it was really a moot point. 

His stomach was feeling a little queasy, so come lunchtime he didn't feel much like eating. After a quick cup of tea and some carrots and celery he set upon cleaning the upstairs. Even though the Inspector had often reminded him that he was not a charlady, he had always enjoyed the mindless activity of cleaning, and at the moment he didn’t feel like he could concentrate on bill paying.

It was almost time to leave for the day before he finally admitted to himself that he really wasn't feeling very well. He'd felt awfully hot ever since coming up to the second floor but assumed that it was just the sun shining in the front windows. But now he was also beginning to feel lightheaded and dizzy, and he had the strangest tingly sensation in his fingers. He was also perspiring heavily.

Deciding he just needed some fresh air, Renfield slowly descended the stairs to the ground floor. He stumbled twice and had to grab the banister to keep from falling. Concerned that the Inspector might be upset at the noise if he fell down the stairs, he made a concerted effort to obtain his objective with both feet planted firmly on the ground.

Once down the stairs, he steadied himself and was about to proceed out the back of the building into the much needed fresh air, when he heard the Inspector call to him.

“Turnbull! Where is he? If he's been dusting again . . . ” She almost collided with her junior officer as she barreled out of her office. “Oh! There you are. Come in here. I need to speak with you and Fraser, and I don't want to have to say this twice.”

Turnbull hurried to follow her as best he could and stood at wobbly attention next to Fraser while she took her seat. He only had a brief moment to wonder vaguely when Constable Fraser had returned, and why he hadn't heard him come in before the Inspector took a deep breath. 

Avoiding eye contact with either officer, she began, “I've heard from Ottawa about a request I submitted for a trans . . .” she looked up and stared at Turnbull briefly. “Constable, are you all right? You look dreadful.”

“Ac - actually,” Renfield gulped a couple of shallow breaths before he could continue, “I wanted to, to tell, tell you about - oh, dear . . . ” Before he could complete the sentence, he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“Renfield!” Thatcher yelled as she bolted around her desk. Fraser was already on his knees next to his fallen comrade by the time Thatcher got to them.

“What is it?” she pleaded with Fraser.

“Call 911!” Fraser ordered as he frowned over his friend, “and then call Kerri!” 

_________________________________________________________

The ambulance wailed through the busy downtown streets with the Consulate car right behind. The paramedics had spent very little time with the stricken Mountie before they knew that something was terribly wrong and transport to the nearest hospital was a dire necessity.

Fraser and Meg had only been waiting outside the examination room in the ER a few minutes when Kerri and Lance came rushing in. Fraser could tell that Kerri didn’t intend to stop and chat and grabbed her firmly by the shoulders before she could run past him into the room.

“Benton, please let me go! I have to see him,” she cried as she struggled against his hold on her.

“Kerri, listen to me,” he whispered firmly. “They haven’t told us what’s wrong yet.”

“I don’t care about that! I need to see--”

“You can’t go in there,” he said, hesitating to say any more.

“What?” she demanded. “Tell me!”

“He may be contagious.”

“Contagious?” she whispered.

Fraser put his arm around her shoulders and led her to a row of chairs against the wall. “He was extremely feverish and was developing a rather nasty rash. They just want to be certain.”

Kerri sat back in the hard plastic chair and leaned her head against the wall. “I talked to him just before lunch. He was fine, he told me,” she smothered a sob with the back of her hand, “he told me he loved me. He said that you and Meg were having,” she looked from Fraser to Meg and back again, and then thought better of what she was about to say, “having a bad day. He was fine! He was worried about you. He was happy and enjoying the weather. Benton, he was fine, what happened?” she pleaded.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know.”

Meg finally spoke up. “Maybe it was just something he ate,” she offered hopefully, although none of them believed it.

They waited silently for an eternity before both Rays ran in. “What the hell’s goin on? Welsh just said ta get ta the hospital . . . ” Ray stopped in mid-sentence, having seen Kerri’s face. “What is it?” he whispered.

“Turnbull,” Meg volunteered. “He collapsed late this afternoon.”

Fraser gave her a reproachful, warning look that both Rays tried to ignore. “We’re awaiting word from the doctors on his condition,” Fraser said as he motioned for the detectives to move away from Kerri. Once far enough away for her to not overhear, Fraser continued, “he passed out at the Consulate and was feverish and incoherent in the ambulance. The paramedics were concerned about skin lesions, they suspected a possible biotoxin.”

“Like smallpox or anthrax?” Vecchio breathed.

“Well, the symptoms do not indicate either one of those, but along those lines, yes.”

“Shit!”

“Ray!” Fraser whispered. “Please, keep you voice down. Kerri is worried enough as it is.”

They all sat in silence for another eternity before a doctor finally appeared. “We have determined that whatever is attacking the Constable is not contagious,” he hesitated, “but it can be classified as a poison.”

“Turnbull’s been poisoned?” 

The doctor turned to Meg. “Who are you?”

“His commanding officer. What is his condition?”

“He is lapsing in and out of consciousness. When he is conscious he is incoherent. His blood pressure is falling steadily, and his temp is 102.”

“What is the treatment?” Meg asked.

“I wish I could tell you. The poison seems to exhibit the characteristics of the nightshade family, but we are assuming that it has been combined with a chemical agent such as bimethoxide that is speeding organ failure. We could treat him with physostigmine if we were sure the plant toxin was belladonna, or we could treat him accordingly if we could identify the chemical compound, but without positive knowledge of the combination of toxins the course of treatment is unpredictable.”

“You can’t do anything for him?” Kerri gasped.

“And you are?”

“His wife.”

The doctor blanched noticeably. Apparently he had not been aware that a family member was among this group of people he had been told were police officers. “I apologize Mrs. Turnbull. Please come with me, and we can discuss your husband’s condition in private.”

“Whatever you have to say about Renfield, you can say to all of us. These people are his friends.”

The doctor sighed deeply. “We are doing what we can to keep him as comfortable as possible, but at the rate his body is breaking down, unless we can determine the combination of plant and chemical toxins and then determine a course of treatment, Constable Turnbull will not survive.”

It was a very good thing that Fraser was standing next to Kerri, because she would have fallen to the floor if he had not been there to support her. But she recovered quickly. She swallowed hard as she pushed away from Fraser. “How long?” she demanded.

“Let’s not focus on that for the moment. I understand that some of you are police officers. Let’s focus on the type of poison.”

“I have to see him!” Kerri completely ignored the doctor’s request. She wasn’t about to wait another moment and pushed by the startled man.

“Kerri, wait!” Fraser was quick, but Kerri was quicker. He caught up with her just inside the door. He had hoped to spare her the shocking reality of seeing the man she loved in such surroundings, but he just wasn’t fast enough to stop her.

“I’m sorry, Kerri. The doctor should have warned you,” Fraser whispered. When she didn’t respond, he took her by the shoulders and made her look at him, and away from Turnbull. “Kerri, look at me,” he insisted. “I promise you that we will find out what it is. We will! Whatever it is, we’ll help him beat it. You have my word.”

Kerri did her best to focus on his eyes and tried her best to believe him. Since she’d known Benton, she’d learned he was incapable of lying, and she tried her best to remember that now.

She turned to look over at the man lying in the bed. “Please?” she pleaded softly.

“You have my word.”  
____________________________________________________

Kerri approached the bed where Renfield lay very slowly. He looked so pale it terrified her. The hook-ups for the myriad of monitors, and tubes stretched from every angle, making her beloved husband look like something out of a bad science fiction movie.

Afraid to touch him, her hand darted back and forth, hovering for a split second over his face before she snatched it back. Finally, she worked up the courage to lightly caress his cheek. Stunned at how hot he was, she immediately looked for a damp cloth to wipe his brow.

Fraser watched her momentarily before he left her to return to the task at hand.

“The doc says we need ta retrace his steps for the last twenty four hours or so,” Ray explained as Fraser walked toward them. “She doin’ okay?” He nodded toward Turnbull’s room.

Fraser sighed heavily. “I don’t think she’s yet realized the full import of Turnbull’s condition.”

“Import?”

“How bad it is.”

“I know what he means, Vecchio!” Kowalski snapped.

“Sorry,” Vecchio whispered.

Ray thought about it for just a moment. “Nah, I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m just worried.”

“Why don’t we try to focus on what’s important here: how was Turnbull poisoned?”

“The doctor thinks it was probably something he came in contact with within the last twenty four hours. So it has to have been yesterday evening or today.” Meg suggested. 

“We played baseball with a bunch a kids on the vacant lot last night. Maybe it was somethin’ there.”

“Meg, call Paige and get the names of the children who played with them. Call the parents and see if any of the children are sick," Fraser ordered. "We’ll go to the lot and see if we can find anything.” 

“Fraser, it’s dark out there,” Vecchio said.

“Then we’ll use the headlights of the cars and flashlights!” he snapped.

Renfield and several of the neighborhood children had spent several weekends cleaning up the vacant lot behind the bookshop. With the help of parents and several officers from the 27th Precinct, he had laid out an almost regulation baseball diamond. Sure, the ‘dugouts’ were wooden planks laid across large rocks, and the bases were plastic bags anchored with more rocks, and the foul lines were marked by trash cans, but it was like Wrigley Field to the children who played there. Now, as the days were getting longer and warmer, several nights a week the children played their form of baseball with police officers, Mounties, parents, and whoever else showed up after work.

Last night had been one of those nights. Kowalski, Turnbull and a couple of other officers had played with the children until it was just too dark to see the ball.

It was also dark now, but that didn’t stop Fraser, Kowalski, Vecchio, Lance and Paige from searching the lot inch by inch, looking for – well, they didn’t know what they were looking for, but Fraser was certain they would know it when they found it.

Before they even set foot on the lot, however, Ray admonished them. “Paige, please, if ya see anythin weird, don’t touch it! It may have poison on it. And Frase, don’t be tastin’ nothin’!”

“Yes, Ray.” Both Fraser and Paige spoke at once. Any other time they would have laughed, but now was definitely not the time for laughter.

Two hours of painstaking, dirty searching passed before even Fraser had to admit that there was absolutely nothing to be found in the dirt. “We need to assume that whatever poisoned Turnbull is not here. We need to know what he did after the game was over.” 

“He said he was gonna catch a shower 'n watch TV. Some kinda curlin’ match or sumpthin,” Ray muttered. They all hurried back into the building to search the apartment.

It was almost midnight before they had determined that Turnbull’s apartment was also not the source of the poison. 

Standing in the middle of Renfield's kitchen Vecchio was ready to admit defeat. “This is like looking for a needle in a haystack when you don’t know what the needle looks like,” he whispered to Fraser. “We’re gonna have to accept the fact that we may not be able to find out--”

“No!” All eyes turned to Fraser as he once again snapped at Vecchio. “There is a source, and that source has to be somewhere where Turnbull was. We need to walk the route that he takes to the Consulate. It’s not far.” Fraser looked at Lance and Paige. “This won’t require all of us. It would be a more effective use of our man, and woman, power if you were to stay behind and answer calls and questions that come into the bookshop. There will be a lot of concerned parents.”

“I’d really like to go back to the hospital and sit with Kerri,” Lance interrupted.

“That’s okay, I’ll stay here. I need to be with Mere, she's really worried about Mr. Mountie.” Paige sighed as she looked at her Ray, “just please let me know how things are going?”

Ray hugged her tightly and whispered in her ear, “don’t worry, I’ll keep ‘n touch.”

________________________________________________________

On three separate occasions, three different nurses and one orderly had tried to get Kerri to leave Renfield’s bedside before they all finally gave up. When they realized she was not about to budge, they shrugged and left her alone. They weren’t able to do anything for the poor man, they decided, so maybe she could.

Kerri could not remember ever being so scared. The thought that she might lose Renfield – well, she couldn’t even imagine that. She knew with every fiber of her being that God had created him just for her and she knew that she literally could not, and would not, live without him.

She concentrated on Benton’s words to her as she watched Renfield suffering. Benton had promised her, and she knew he didn’t offer such promises lightly. She had more faith in him than in any other person alive, with the possible exception of the man who lay before her.

She could tell Renfield was in pain and it sickened her that there was nothing she could do for him. She continually wiped his brow and whispered soothing words to him as he lapsed in and out of consciousness, and despaired that when he was conscious he didn’t recognize her.

She was lightly dozing with her head resting on the edge of his bed, somewhere in the middle of the night, when he awoke her with his moans, “Mummy,” he cried as he thrashed about in the bed, “why’s it so . . . so hot? I want . . . want water.” Kerri raised his head and offered him water through a straw, but most of it dribbled down his chin. Holding his head, she was once again shocked by how hot he was. “Where’s . . . Wolffy, Mummy? I want . . . Wolffy.”

His feverish eyes searched her face, but then focused on a spot over her shoulder. "Mum, why . . . why . . . are you here? I thought . . . thought . . . Is it . . . it time for . . . me to  
go . . . with you . . . I don't . . . " he couldn't go on, as he lapsed into unconsciousness once again.

“Dear God, Benton, please hurry!”

__________

At precisely midnight, Meg’s cell phone rang. Resting with her head propped against the wall, Meg stood straight up as she snatched at the phone.

“Thatcher!” she yelled into the phone.

“Well, is this the illustrious RCMP Inspector Margaret Thatcher?” asked a sarcastic voice on the other end of the line.

More disappointed than she thought humanly possible, Meg snapped at the man. “This is a private line, and I’m waiting for a very important call!”

“You’d be making a very serious mistake if you hang up, Meg.” The man’s voice was so threatening he suddenly had her undivided attention. “Ah, so now you’re listening. So how’s lover boy doing? Not feeling very well?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered.

“Oh, I think you do, sweetheart. How about nausea, dizziness, hallucinations, high fever, unconsciousness, renal failure, and, oh, a really icky rash. And in about twelve hours or so, death?” The man laughed maniacally. He was breathless when he continued, “how about that? Your lover boy got any of those?”

Meg sucked in a sharp breath. “The poison?”

“That would be it,” he laughed. Then he turned serious, deadly serious. “How’s Fraser doing? I’m very concerned for him.”

“Fraser?” Meg breathed.

“Sure, you know him. Tall, dark curly hair, some might think he’s handsome, red suit, looks like a toy soldier? Your lover?”

Meg cast a terrified glance in the direction of Turnbull’s room. ‘Oh, my god,’ Meg thought, ‘it was supposed to have been Ben!’ “Who is this?” she demanded. “What have you done?”

“You sitting down, Meggie?" He waited several agonizingly long moments before he made his announcement. "Name’s Bolt, Alexander Bolt. Sound familiar? I think you might know a couple of my other family members, Cousin Cyrus and brother Randall? I’m his little brother, and their avenging angel,” he stated in a tone so matter-of-fact it made Meg’s blood run cold. “And what I’ve done is poison your lover.” He hesitated just briefly. “Aren’t you going to ask me the rest?” he pouted.

“What?” Meg whispered, still too shocked to really comprehend the whole situation.

“Ask me!” he demanded.

“What!” she demanded.

“Well, that’s a start,” he muttered. “What - I - want! Dammit!" He shouted into the phone, "ask me what I want!”

Calling on her extensive police training Meg quickly regrouped. Realizing that the man on the other end of the phone needed to continue to think that he had hit his target in Fraser, she decided to play along. “He’s very sick, Mr. Bolt. Please,” she pleaded, “please tell me how to help him.”

“Ask me what I want,” he said, singsong style.

“Please, Mr. Bolt,” she said, swallowing her rapidly growing anger, “tell me what you want.”

“Meggie, I think you'd better call me Alexander.” 

__________________________________________________________

Fraser, Vecchio and Kowalski still had about three blocks of Turnbull’s route to search when Kowalski’s cell phone rang.

“Yeah?”

“Ray, let me talk to Ben!” Meg demanded.

Afraid to ask, but having to know, Ray wasn’t quite ready to relinquish the phone, “he okay? Nothin’s happened or . . . or nothin’ . . . ”

“No, there’s not much change. Please, Ray, let me talk to Ben,” she pleaded.

“It’s Meg. Sounds like she's really upset,” he said as he handed the phone to Fraser.

“Ben, you have to get back here, NOW!” The panic in her voice startled him.

“Meg, what’s-- ”

“I’ll explain when you get here. Just HURRY!”  
_________

Kerri fell back into a fitful sleep with her head once again lying on the edge of his bed. Even while asleep she held onto Renfield’s hand, refusing to break the only contact she had with him. She was sleeping just that way when a doctor and two nurses came into the room.

“What --?” Kerri jumped as someone placed their hands on her shoulders.

“You’ve got to move out of the way,” a disembodied voice demanded.

“NO! I’m not leaving--”

“Mrs. Turnbull, you must get out of our way.”

“What’s that?” Terrified, Kerri pointed at a large piece of machinery being pushed into the room.

“It’s a mobile dialysis machine. Please, you need to leave the room.”

Two strong hands gripped her shoulders and pushed her toward the door. “His kidneys are failing, honey,” the nurse whispered to her. “This is not something that you want to watch. You need to let us do this for him. It will be all right, you just need to wait outside for a few minutes. I’ll come and get you as soon as I can. Please.”  
__________

Meg’s call caused Fraser, Kowalski and Vecchio to run the few blocks back to Ray’s GTO and use the siren as Kowalski sped through the deserted streets.

They found Meg in the same place she’d been when they’d left several hours ago, just down the hall from Turnbull’s ICU room.

“Thank God you’re here!” In a gesture so totally uncharacteristic it shocked both Rays, Meg threw her arms around Fraser. She pushed away after a moment, obviously embarrassed at her public show of affection. “I got a call,” she explained, “from someone calling himself Alexander Bolt.”

“Holy shit!” Vecchio whistled under his breath.

“The poisoning was intentional?” Fraser whispered.

“Yes,” she hesitated, “but Turnbull was not the intended target." Knowing how deeply it would affect him, she hesitated to say any more. It wasn't necessary for him to say anything, however, the look on his face told her she had to finish. "You were.”

“So we’ve been lookin’--”

“--in the wrong place.” Fraser completed Kowalski’s sentence. He stared at the door to Turnbull’s room and whispered, “we assumed it was something Turnbull came in contact with in his daily routine, but it has to be something that both of us would normally come in contact with.”

“He wants one million dollars and safe passage for himself and Randall out of the country.”

“The Canadian Government does not negotiate with terrorists. There is no way they would submit to his demands. The only way we can save Turnbull is to find the source of the poison.” Fraser said, more to himself than to the others present.

“He said that it wouldn’t matter if you did find the source. Only he has the antidote,” Meg breathed.

“It’s somethin’ he made up?”

“So he said.”

“Did he say how long?” Fraser asked, unaware that Kerri was approaching from behind him.

But Meg saw her and could not bring herself to say the words that would answer Fraser’s question.

“Did he say how long Renfield has to live?” Kerri asked in a voice none of them had ever heard before.

“Kerri, I don’t--”

“TELL HIM!” she shouted.

Meg was close to tears. “I’m sorry Kerri, Bolt said about . . . about twelve hours.”

Kerri stood among them, straight and tall, accepting the blow of Meg’s words without flinching, but everyone standing near her saw her begin to fade, as if she were very slowly leaving them.

“I see,” she whispered.

“Honey, please, we’re doin everythin’ we can. We’ll find the damn antidote . . . ”

Ray's words unheeded, Kerri turned and walked back to the ICU without uttering a sound.

Reading the look on Fraser’s face, Meg touched his arm. “It’s not your fault. You can’t take the blame . . . ”

Fraser ignored her. “Ray, we need to get to the Consulate as soon as possible.” 

“Ben, please, you can’t take this personally. It’s--”

Fraser turned on her. “Turnbull is suffering and dying in my place!” he yelled. “How much more personal can it get?” 

Kowalski and Vecchio had to run to catch up with him as he stormed out of the hospital.

__________________________________________________________

It was just after one in the morning when the three police officers burst through the front door of the Canadian Consulate. They still didn’t know exactly what they were looking for, but they were confident that they would find it here.

Vecchio took the second floor as Kowalski and Fraser searched the first. Vecchio searched the private suites’ bathrooms, looking for any cleaning agents that might have been tampered with, as Fraser did the same in the down stairs kitchen and bathroom.

Kowalski tore apart Turnbull’s desk. Tossing neatly stacked piles of papers every which way, he swore as he began to realize that it, whatever ‘it’ was, wasn’t in Turnbull’s desk.

He was heading for Fraser’s office when he passed Fraser in the hall. “I’m goin ta your office.”

“I’m going to check Meg’s office and then I’ll help you search.”

Kowalski once again made a mess of neat files and tidy pencil drawers. He had almost given up hope when he spotted Fraser’s mail. He felt that flipping through a mound of carefully sorted and cataloged letters and magazines was really an exercise in futility, but they had to search everything.

As soon as he spotted the small, padded envelope under a uniform catalog he knew. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention as he stared at the innocuous tan envelope. He found a pair of tweezers in the back of Fraser’s desk drawer and slowly plucked at the envelope until it slid all the way out from under the rest of the mail.

He saw the small spot on the flap and knew immediately what had happened. Turnbull had opened and sorted Fraser’s mail for him. A gesture of helpfulness that was so like the man. Ray knew the spot on the flap was blood. Turnbull had pricked his finger on a staple and had been poisoned.

Ray stared at the source of the poison, thinking of his friend, lying, and possibly dying, in the ICU, and how something so seemingly insignificant had brought the strong, healthy man to his knees. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, in a successful attempt to stem the flow of tears that threatened to overwhelm him.

When he was finally able to shake off the morbid thoughts he started yelling. “Fraser, Vecchio! Get in here! I found it! It’s in the mail!”  
__________

They dropped off the poisoned envelope with the lab and hurried back to the ICU.

“He’s not doing very well,” Meg volunteered as the three men rushed up. “You found it?”

“It was on a staple on a piece a mail . . . ” Kowalski’s words faded away as they all watched Fraser stride on passed them and into Turnbull’s room.

Fraser came to an abrupt halt in the shadows just beyond the privacy curtain. From his vantagepoint he could observe Kerri and Turnbull without being seen. He watched them for several moments before he really began to study them.

Kerri held Turnbull’s hand as she rested her head on the side of the bed. Fraser couldn’t tell if she was sleeping, but if she was it wasn’t a deep sleep. He watched as Turnbull began to writhe in pain and watched as Kerri was immediately up wiping his brow and murmuring softly to him.

He’d only been standing there for a couple of minutes when his heart skipped a beat. When her gentle ministrations didn’t seem to ease his agony, Kerri carefully moved the hook-ups and tubes out of the way and climbed onto the bed next to her husband. Taking him tenderly into her arms, she lay down next to him and carefully positioned herself so that she held his body against hers, with his head resting on her shoulder.

Somehow it didn’t surprise Fraser that being held in her arms calmed Turnbull. No amount of medication or doctoring was able to do for him what the love they had for each other could.

He'd known since almost the beginning that the feelings Turnbull and Kerri had for each other were something different, something unique. A physical and emotional bond so strong that nothing, not even death could break it. As Fraser watched Turnbull slowly relax in her arms, he could barely breathe. It seemed to him that all the energy in the room had been redirected to one spot, the man lying on the bed. 

“What in the world does she think she's doing?” a female voice from behind him demanded.

The nurse tried to push passed Fraser, but he blocked her way. “Sir, please get out of my way, she can't lie on the bed with him, she'll dislodge an IV or--”

“Let her be!" he demanded "Can't you see how her closeness has soothed him? She's doing what none of you have yet been able to, offering him some comfort. Please, just let her be.”

Violating every hospital policy known to man was not something this nurse took lightly, however, she knew that the Mountie was right. Her goal in life was to help ease suffering, so she only hesitated a moment. She looked at him sideways and smiled slightly. “Aren't you the guy who kept a dog with him while he was in here?”

“A wolf actually.”

“I thought so.” She smiled as she shrugged her shoulders. “I don't see a thing,” she said as she turned to go.

The love in the room was almost palpable as Fraser sighed deeply and turned to follow her, what he had intended to say to Kerri left unspoken. In an uncharacteristic moment, the envy he felt was written, unshielded, on his face. He had felt that all-consuming, unconditional love for someone, once. But, he had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he would never again allow himself to experience that emotion after Victoria left him to die on that train platform. It just hurt too much.  
__________

“We gotta do somethin’ else. We can’t just sit here waitin’ for . . . we gotta do somethin’ else.”

“We are. That is I am.” Fraser grabbed his Stetson from the chair next to Meg as he continued on out the door.

“Fraser! Wait!” Vecchio yelled after him. “Where’re you going?”

“To see Cyrus Bolt.” Fraser yelled back. 

__________________________________________________________

The sky was just beginning to grow light in the east as Fraser entered the Warden’s office. A little less than twenty-four hours ago, at approximately the same time of the morning a young, slightly naïve, often clueless, completely well intentioned, RCMP Constable had made his way to work. And to a fate that he did not deserve. Benton Fraser was here to see what he could do to save the life of someone who did not deserve to die.

Fraser made brief work of explaining the circumstances to Ms. Liu-Grushka, Warden of Joliet Prison, before Liu-Grushka agreed to meet him at the ungodly hour. Unfortunately, Ms. Liu-Grushka told him, once they were face to face, Cyrus Bolt had recently been transferred to the psychiatric block. Bolt had lost his mind.

“I don’t think he’ll be able to help you, Constable. You’re welcome to question him, but Bolt is rarely lucid, and is about to drive everyone to distraction singing the same song over and over and over.” Liu-Grushka sighed, “the man’s a real nut case.”

“I appreciate the cooperation. At this point we are desperate for anything that might lead us to Alexander, or the antidote.”

Fraser had been in hospitals for the criminally insane and psychiatric wards before, but he was still unnerved by the atmosphere of this place. Hearing the cries, moans and other unidentifiable noises coming from behind the thick metal doors brought to mind histories he had read of the madhouses of the 18th century, and artist’s renderings of Bedlam. He shuddered involuntarily.

“This place spooks me too,” Liu-Grushka said. “I avoid it like the plague.”

“It is rather unsettling. Such torment and pain. It rather reminds me of . . . ”

“ . . . of the bowels of hell?”

Neither of them said much after that, until they reached Bolt’s cell. From the small Plexiglas window in the door they could see him, sitting staring at the wall, singing at the top of his lungs. Fraser thought it was him anyway, Bolt’s head was obscured by a white pillow cover that he had pulled down over it.

“How the hell did he get a hold of that!” Liu-Grushka demanded as she hurriedly unlocked the door.

Liu-Grushka rushed into the tiny cell and snatched the pillowcase off Bolt’s head in one swift movement. The singing abruptly stopped as Bolt jerked around in surprise. He was even more surprised to see Fraser.

As soon as he saw Fraser, Bolt started singing again, even louder, his eyes never leaving Fraser’s face. 

“Ring around the rosy, pocket full ‘o posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down. Ring around the rosy…”

Bolt kept singing the nursery rhyme as Fraser tried to question him.

“Cyrus, do you remember me?” he asked.

The off key singing only got louder.

“Do you remember your cousin Randall?” Bolt’s singing became slightly slower and he knitted his brows in concentration. Fraser took that as an affirmative answer. “How about Alexander?” 

He stopped singing. “I want my mantle.”

“What?”

“My mantle! My halo! My sainthood!” he demanded. “I want it back!”

Liu-Grushka reluctantly handed back the pillowcase, which Bolt promptly threw over his head, leaving one eye uncovered to stare at Fraser. Then he began to sing again.

“Cyrus,” Fraser tried his best to get the man to focus, “we gave you back your . . . your mantle, now please tell me about Alexander. I will do whatever you ask, I just need that antidote!” he begged. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“You ruined our plans!” he yelled at his nemesis, the hated man in red. “Alexander is our angel,’ he whispered.

“He’s hurt an innocent man. I need to know where I can find him. Where is Alexander?” Fraser found himself becoming frantic.

Bolt’s singing just became louder and more exasperating. Finally, worn out and at the end of his rope, Fraser lost it. He grabbed the older man by the shoulders and began to shake him. “Tell me where I can find him, dammit! I have to find . . . ”

Liu-Grushka jumped up and pulled Fraser off the other man. “It won’t do any good, Constable, he’s too far gone.” She led Fraser out of the room, but before leaving jerked the pillowcase off of Bolt’s head. Making a mental note to find, and fire, the person responsible for giving it to Bolt in the first place, Liu-Grushka locked the door behind them.

“I’m sorry, Constable, I wish he could have helped you. I thought I saw a moment or two of lucidity. He certainly recognized you. You two must have quite a history.”

Finally able to get a hold on his emotions, Fraser became acutely embarrassed by his previous actions. “I've had dealings with his family, yes,” he whispered.

“Constable Fraser, you are deeply concerned for a colleague and a friend. As far as I am concerned nothing untoward happened in there.”

“Thank you kindly,” Fraser sighed.  
__________________________________________________________

Once outside the prison Fraser used the cell phone he had borrowed from Lance to call Ray. 

“Kowalski. Make it quick!”

“Fraser here. My visit to Bolt was unproductive. How’s Turnbull?”

“We’re not at the hospital, we’re on our way ta Braidwood. Got ‘n address.”

“What?” Fraser was astonished.

“Hey! Yer not the only one who’s a cop, ‘n not the only one who’s worried bout Turnbull. Been tryin ta call ya for bout fifteen minutes. It's a place Cyrus 'n Randall own.”

“I’m still in Joliet, give me the address and I’ll meet you there.”

The address in Braidwood was surprisingly close to the prison. It took Fraser only a few minutes to find the location. Apparently Alexander had wanted to be close to his cousin. His name had not been listed on Liu-Grushka's printout as ever having visited the prison, but that didn’t necessarily mean he had never been there.

Apparently Vecchio, Kowalski and he were not the only cops concerned about Turnbull either. When Fraser arrived at the address, ferreted out by Francesca from property tax records, he spotted Jack Huey’s car just down the block. He and his partner were nowhere to be seen, however.

Fraser knew to wait for backup, he knew not to enter the building until he had sufficient resources to cover him, he knew better than to approach the suspected residence of a potential murderer without a weapon, and he knew how dangerous anyone named Bolt would be. He found a side entrance and went in anyway.

A derelict brick warehouse encompassing at least one half of a city block, located in an area of the city filled with rundown, bombed out buildings, the structure in question was three stories tall, with countless broken windows and boarded up doorways. What immediately caught Fraser’s attention was the third floor. Several windows on the north side were covered with sheets of plywood, as if someone was trying to hide something that was going on behind them.

The creaky wooden stairs just inside the entrance did little to cover the sounds of the Mountie ascending them, even though the man was capable of superhuman stealth. The treads groaned loudly as Fraser carefully climbed to the second floor. From the second floor landing, he could see a great amount of light coming from above, indicating to him that a large portion of the roof must be missing.

He continued cautiously up to the third floor, stopping after each step, with his back pressed against the wall, to listen. Hearing nothing that indicated there was anyone else in the building he proceeded upward. Once he arrived at the top of the stairs, he took a full minute to survey his surroundings.

This floor had obviously once housed the administrative offices for whatever type of manufacturing that had been done here. A long central hallway stretched the length of the building from the landing. Several doorways that opened onto either side of the hall had once held doors that probably announced the position of the person who occupied the office within. These days however, if a door still existed, it either hung precariously from one hinge or lay on the floor with broken hardware and glass.

Fraser crept down the hall to the first office on the side of the building facing the street. He had indeed been correct, the roof was almost completely gone on this side of the building. The first office was rather small and had a door toward the back that led to another room next to it. There were large puddles of water on the floor where last night's rain had poured onto it. Numerous floorboards had rotted away, and from where he stood he could see the floor below through gaping holes. The windows in this room were broken out, but not covered with the plywood he had seen from the street. The area he sought was apparently farther down this hall.

He slid across the room, carefully testing the existing floor for stability as he went, and came to stand next to the window, able to see but not be seen from the street below. Ray’s GTO was not yet in sight and Fraser did not feel he had the time to wait. He left the room quietly and stood motionless in the hallway, again listening for any unusual sounds.

Still hearing nothing but the wind whistling through the broken windows, he moved on down the hall. Every office looked pretty much like the first, varying only in size, the larger rooms possibly indicating the importance of the former occupant. About halfway down the hall Fraser's nostrils twitched at the smell of something slightly out of the ordinary. It was a musty, decaying odor, not unusual for an old building such as this, but just slightly different. He couldn’t immediately place it, but he knew it was definitely out of place here.

As he crept along the corridor Fraser was unaware of the tiny closed circuit surveillance camera imbedded in the crumbling crown molding at the far end of the hall, or the man hidden behind a door just to the right of the camera.

The little man, severely balding and aged far beyond his forty years, watched in growing horror as the Mountie methodically made his way down the corridor. At first he hadn’t believed his eyes, it couldn’t be! But it was! It was Fraser! Randall had told him that Fraser was like Superman, but Fraser lay dying in a Chicago hospital, he’d confirmed that with that phone call to Thatcher. 

So what the hell was he doing here?  
__________________________________________________________

The closer Fraser came to the end of the hall, the strong the odor became. He was now certain that it was some sort of plant material, decaying plants of some sort, the specific type was unknown to him, however.

About three-quarters of the way down the long hall, Fraser finally came to a doorway with the door still completely attached. It stood slightly ajar, so he could not see into the room without gently nudging the door with his boot. As he very slowly inched the door open, his nose was assailed with the pungent odor of hundreds of plants.

He opened the door just far enough to squeeze through, and immediately flattened himself against the wall.

The room was much larger than the other offices, with a huge skylight running the entire length of it. The area was ablaze with sunlight and was very hot, even for this early in spring. An intricate maze of thin water pipes hung from the ceiling and blasted a fine mist every couple of minutes, causing the space to also be extremely humid. The windows had been boarded up, just as he had seen from the street. This was indeed the culmination of his search.

The room was full of row after row of low metal tables. Each table held a vast assortment of potted plants, some towering almost to the glass ceiling, some just cuttings off a parent plant. Some of the plants he recognized as species indigenous to North America and some he could not specifically identify, but they were obviously tropical, most likely from South America or Africa. Most of the plants that he recognized he knew to have some level of toxicity, most predominate of those were several from the nightshade family. So Bolt had been experimenting with poisonous plants! And this was obviously his laboratory.

Fraser carefully made his way around the numerous tables, looking for anything that might give him an indication as to what might have poisoned Turnbull. He was at the corner of the room farthest from the door when he heard a noise.

Alexander Bolt knew he had the upper hand. Even if the Mountie had overcome the effects of his concoction of Belladonna laced with bimethoxide, he knew that what the dart fired from the gun he held contained would stop an elephant. He knew that for a fact because he had seen that very demonstration on his last trip to India.

The Mountie might be bigger and stronger than him, but Bolt knew that he was smarter. One shot from his dart gun and the Mountie was dead. It saddened him that it would have to be a fairly common poison that did the deed, and not his own creation, but now was not the time to quibble. Dead was dead. So what if Randall had to stay in prison, he'd probably go nuts anyway, just like Cyrus. Totally useless, both of them. No, he thought, he was on his own now.

And he'd better hurry. Wherever the Mountie was there was at least one Chicago cop right behind, or so Randall had told him. The floor beneath his foot creaked and Alexander knew it was now or never.

Holding the dart gun steadily in front of him, Alexander crept cautiously toward the back of the room, where he had last seen Fraser on the closed circuit monitor. The leaves of the larger tropical plants blocked his path and obscured his line of sight, but he knew exactly where he was going. He'd walked this path hundreds of times as he plotted his revenge against the meddling Mountie.

Hearing him coming, Fraser crept around the corner of a table of small plant cuttings that had barely begun to root, heading for the cover of larger plants. He rounded a corner, quietly pushing large palm fronds out of his way and abruptly came face to face with the third, and he prayed the last of the Bolt men.

Pointing the dart gun directly at Fraser's heart, Alexander grinned menacingly at the unarmed Mountie. “Ah, so, we finally meet! The man responsible for the thwarted plans of my illustrious family. How does it feel, Constable, to have survived the best plans of three Bolts?" Alexander did not wait for Fraser to respond. “You may have survived my little present for you, but you won't survive this!” The anger boiled within him, knowing that his plan for revenge had failed.

Sensing the frustration in his opponent, Fraser decided to play for time. “I came here to beg for your help. Your poison is working, just on the wrong man. You can take me, but please spare him. Constable Turnbull is an innocent bystander, he was just doing me a favor by opening my mail. He does not deserve to die. I came to ask you for the antidote,” he pleaded.

Bolt was at once angered that his poison had missed its intended target, but also extremely gratified that it had indeed worked. “So sorry about your friend,” he said sarcastically, “but there are degrees of suffering. Maybe watching your friend die is acceptable punishment, at least for the moment.” He thought about that briefly before he reached a momentous conclusion. “Nope, not acceptable. You have to die too." He grinned broadly, "two cops for the price of one, now that's acceptable!”

Standing barely ten feet from his target, Bolt brought both hands together to ensure a truer aim, just as he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Momentarily distracted, he spun toward the movement. He saw only a red blur out of the corner of his eye as Fraser lunged at him and heard only the whistle of the bullet that hit him in the chest, dead center. 

Bolt number three fell to the floor, the object of his revenge fully on top of him, the dart gun unfired. Tom Dewey stood in the far doorway, legs spread, with both hands on his weapon. He lowered the gun slowly, as he realized the full impact of what had just happened.

Fraser scrambled to his knees, off Bolt, who was already covered in blood. Knowing that the man's wounds were mortal, he turned the dying man over and forced him to look at him. “Tell me! The antidote, I have to have the antidote!”

All Fraser got for his trouble was an all too familiar tune, “ring around . . . the rosy, a . . . p . . . pocket . . . full . . . full of p . . . posies . . . ashes . . . ash . . . ” And then the singing ceased, Alexander Bolt was dead. 

__________________________________________________________

Tom Dewey stood over the dead man, knowing that he had just killed the only chance for Turnbull's survival. Dewey was one of the few people who still thought that Turnbull had Swiss cheese for brains, but he also knew that the Mountie didn't deserve to suffer and die, and for that he was intensely sorry.

“Fraser, did you get it?” he demanded. He knew the answer but could pray he was wrong. “The antidote?”

Fraser pulled away from the body, his red tunic wet with Bolt blood, and stood up as he slowly shook his head.

“Damn,” Dewey muttered. “I'm sorry, man, he would have killed you too, I had to do something.”

Fraser glared at Dewey. “He hasn't killed anyone! Turnbull will not die because I failed!”

Panting, Jack Huey ran up behind them. “Kowalski and Vecchio are right behind me,” he gulped for air. “You two okay? I heard the shot from the other end of the first floor.” He looked at the body and then at his partner's gun. “You get anything out of him?”

Dewey shook his head. “Just that stupid song about the plague.”

“Damn,” Huey whispered. 

Fraser jerked around to face Dewey. “What did you say?” he demanded.

“Nothing. Sorry Fraser, I know how much Turnbull means --”

“No,” Fraser interrupted, “what did you say about the plague?” he demanded again.

“That song, it's a nursery rhyme about the bubonic plague.”

Fraser looked like someone had turned a light bulb on over his head. “Of course! I don't know why I didn't see it before!”

Huey, Dewey, and now Vecchio and Kowalski all looked at Fraser as if there was a hole in his bag of marbles. “Frase, I know yer upset, but yer not makin' any sense.”

“All the symptoms, or the majority of them anyway, are symptoms of the plague! Don't you see? Bolt was must have been experimenting with ways to reproduce the bubonic plague! And he was going to use me as the guinea pig. Thank God he couldn’t reproduce the epidemic,” he whispered more to himself than to the others present. “And Cyrus was trying to tell everyone about it by singing that damn song.”

Fraser started running around the room. “They're here somewhere, they have to be!”

“Fraser! What’re you looking for?" Vecchio yelled. "We can help.”

“Flowers! Crushed petals to be precise.” He found them in a drawer, under one of the tables at the far end of the room. “They're here!” he yelled, yanking the drawer completely out of the shelf and throwing the contents on the floor. “But no antidote,” he muttered as the others came running.

“I don't get it,” Vecchio said.

“It's in the rhyme, a pocket full of posies. They put flowers in their pockets cause the sores on their bodies smelled.” Dewey explained. “If this is some kinda riddle, maybe there's a fireplace around here somewhere?” he suggested.

“What?” Vecchio was still confused.

“The ashes part of the rhyme. They burned the bodies of plague victims.” Fraser offered Dewey a slight smile for the suggestion, for which Tom would be eternally grateful. He was still kicking himself for eliminating what he was afraid would be their one chance at finding the antidote.

As Huey and Dewey ran off in search of a fireplace, incinerator, or some other such device, Fraser, Vecchio and Kowalski hurriedly discussed their options. 

“There any more ta the song?” Kowalski demanded.

“No,” Fraser sighed, “but that antidote has got to be here somewhere. Bolt had to have leverage. Look for an office, or worktable, computer, anything where he might have kept notes.”

The three friends spread out over the far end of the third floor, searching long abandoned offices for anything remotely resembling a clue. At the extreme end of the hall, Fraser entered a room that must have once been a janitor's closet.

Crammed in at the far end of the small space were floor to ceiling shelves, each containing racks of countless test tubes holding vile smelling concoctions. Fraser had found the source of the odor he had first detected at the other end of the building. The sight of so many test tubes was devastating to Fraser. Any one of them could contain the precious antidote that he would give his life to find. 

The small room also contained a closed circuit TV monitor that focused on the hallway. So much for the element of surprise. Sitting on the desk next to the monitor was a computer, and above the computer was a long shelf with numerous books. 

For some unexplained reason, Fraser was drawn to the books. Mostly scientific journals referencing botany, toxicology and human anatomy, Fraser continued studying the titles until he came to the end of the shelf. The very last book in the row caused him to catch his breath: National Nursery Rhymes by JW Elliott. The spine of the old book was well worn, but the gilt lettering against the azure blue background was easily read. 

Hands shaking in anticipation, Fraser pulled the slender volume off the shelf. More afraid than he had ever been in his life, he stared at the blue cloth cover with its antique gilt lettering for several moments before he opened the cover.

__________________________________________________________

The Bell Ranger police helicopter, carrying one Mountie, two Chicago cops and the potion that they knew would save the life of their friend, lifted slowly off the crumbling parking area outside the derelict building. Huey and Dewey watched as it rapidly disappeared in the distance, silently willing it to move even faster.

No one in the chopper spoke, but each man prayed more fervently than he ever had before. Vecchio fingered the crucifix that hung around his neck, Kowalski closed his eyes, bowed his head and folded his hands in his lap, and Fraser stared, with unseeing eyes, toward heaven. The vial that Fraser held in his hand, the one he had found in a hollowed out space in an antique book of nursery rhymes, was the answer to their first prayer. Now they prayed their second prayer: that they would be in time.  
__________

It was almost noon. Meg knew that somewhere around this time yesterday Turnbull had become infected. She also knew that they had just about run out of time. She watched as nurses and doctors hurried to and fro, coming and going from Turnbull's room like ants in a hill, each person carrying equipment that became more and more worrisome as the morning progressed.

She worried too about Kerri. She hadn't seen her friend in over an hour, and that was only when she had peeked into the ICU room. Kerri had not and would not leave his side and Meg knew her to be exhausted.

As she stared down the hall toward his room, Meg saw an obviously defeated doctor emerge wearily from the room. Leaning up against the nearest wall, the woman sighed deeply.

“Has anything happened?” Meg asked as she hurried up to the other woman.

“He's failing rapidly. Frankly, it surprises me he's still with us. I have to say that I think the only thing keeping him alive is the sheer will of his wife. She's the only thing standing between him and his Maker. I've never seen anything like it, and I watch that miracle show on TV!”

“They have a very special bond,” Meg sighed. She couldn't help but think of Ben and the relationship that they had, so unlike Turnbull and Kerri's. Only yesterday she had been ready to give it up, to say goodbye to Ben. She sighed deeply.

Meg and the doctor had run out of things to say to each other when Meg's phone rang.

Upon hearing Fraser's voice, Meg grabbed the doctor's arm. “They've got it! The antidote! They're on their way!”

“Thank God! It's about time we were able to do something for him!” She turned to rush back into the room, but hesitated briefly, “tell them to HURRY!”  
__________

By the time the crowded helicopter touched down on the roof of the hospital, there was absolutely no time to run any tests on the potion in the slender vial. The doctor, they never would know his name, who met them at the door said it was now or never. The antidote would either work or it would not, but there was no time to wait.

A nurse held the elevator door as Fraser, Kowalski, Vecchio, and the unnamed physician ran from the roof. The ride down just five floors seemed interminable to those who knew that even seconds could make the difference between life and death.

“We put him on a respirator about an hour ago. Your Inspector Thatcher told us that all RCMP offices have an advance directive that indicates no heroic methods will be utilized to sustain life, but Mrs. Turnbull insisted that you would be coming. She has a great amount of faith in you all,” the doctor shook his head in wonderment, “and a very strong will. When it comes to her husband, at least.”

“Kerri ‘n Turnbull got this really special thing goin' on between ‘em. None a the rest a us completely understand it, but we all know not ta get between ‘em, not if we wanna survive!” Everyone in the elevator chuckled softly just as the doors opened to the third floor.  
__________

Barely twenty minutes later, the large group of friends and associates who waited quietly just down the hall from the entrance to the ICU froze in unison as they saw two figures emerge from that entrance. The doctor who Meg had spoken with earlier, the one who watched the miracle show on television, walked slowly toward them with her arm around Kerri’s shoulders. Kerri leaned heavily against the other woman and sobbed uncontrollably.

As the two women came closer to the group, there was an audible gasp by all present. 

Ray Vecchio was the first to find his voice. “Kerri? What’s happened? Did it work? Were we in time?

__________________________________________________________

The doctor smiled slightly at the group assembled in the hallway. Leading Kerri to a chair, she bent down and asked her, “do you want to tell them?” she whispered.

Kerri looked up, her face streaked with tears, and looked directly at Fraser. “The antidote worked, he’s already turning around.” She smiled through her tears. 

As one, Fraser, Vecchio, Kowalski, Meg, Lance, Huey and Dewey started to breathe again. For a few moments after Kerri made her announcement, none of them knew exactly what to do. They may have all started breathing again, but none of them moved.

Finally, Dewey broke the silence. “Way ta go, Fraser!” he yelled. He offered Fraser a high-five, which Fraser ignored as he walked slowly to a chair near Kerri and sat down heavily. 

He shook his head. “Not just me, all of us." He was wearier than he could ever remember being. "Maybe we are finally free of the Bolt family,” he muttered

Ray frowned deeply as he watched Kerri. He couldn’t understand why she was still crying, unless . . . He sat down next to her, and even though he was afraid to ask, he had to know, “why’re ya cryin?” he asked softly. “Is everythin’ gonna be okay with him?” 

She nodded her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just so relieved. I can’t seem to stop,” she sniffed.

Ray was so relieved he almost cried himself. He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “That’s okay, honey,” he laughed, “us guys gotta do the macho thing ‘n slap each other on the back 'n stuff. But we all feel like cryin’ too.” He spoke the truth, if they hadn’t been embarrassed to do so, there wouldn’t have been a dry eye in the house.  
__________

As the high of the news about Turnbull began to wear off, some of them realized that they had a life to return to. The first to say their good-byes were Huey and Dewey. 

“I’m really glad it all worked out okay,” Huey said as he and his partner prepared to get back to work.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for Renfield. It means so much to me,” Kerri smiled.

“Yeah, well, we didn’t do all that much,” Dewey answered. He could only hope that she and Turnbull would never have to know what a stupid move he’d made in killing Bolt.

Fraser heard Dewey’s remark and responded instantly. “You saved my life, Detective. I would like to think that was a lot.”

“Thanks, Fraser,” he muttered as he turned to go.

“Tom?” Kerri called him back. “Maybe someday soon you can come to our house for dinner. Renfield will have to cook, of course, since my cooking is something less than edible,” she chuckled. “I’d like to try to convince you that Renfield is more than just a clueless simpleton,” she whispered so just he would hear.

Dewey was shocked. “I don’t--”

“Oh, yes you do,” she smiled. “But that’s okay, really. Renfield spent a lot of time trying to convince everyone of just that. It’s my mission in life to convert everyone to belief in the ‘real’ Renfield Turnbull.”

Jack Huey and his thoroughly embarrassed partner left the hospital hoping that Turnbull made a really quick recovery. They both loved the stuff that guy cooked.

“Ya wanna go home for a while? I got my car here so I can give ya a lift. I gotta give Paige ‘n the munchkin a Mister Mountie update anyway,” Ray offered.

“Why don’t you go on? I know you guys must really be beat. I’m going to stay here for a while longer, I’m just not ready to leave yet.”

“I’ll take Kerri home whenever she’s ready,” Fraser said.

“Benton, it’s not necessary for you to wait--”

“Yes, it is.” Kerri didn’t even try to object again. The look on Fraser’s face told her not to argue.

“Why don’t the rest of you go on,” Fraser looked pointedly at Meg. “We’ll keep you informed as to his progress.”

Once all the others had gone, Fraser turned to Kerri. “I’d like to sit with him just a minute before you go back in, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course I don’t mind.” Kerri took his arm as he turned away from her. “He really is going to be okay, you know?”

“Yes.”

She watched him walk into Renfield’s room. She could tell just by the way he moved that he was tired. But it was more than just a physical condition. He seemed to be weary all the way down to his soul. Benton obviously cared very deeply for Renny, more deeply than Kerri had ever imagined. As she thought back over the last several hours, she now realized that he would have given his own life to save Renfield. That made her profoundly grateful, and profoundly proud.

She had the privilege of knowing one of the most remarkable men in the world. Actually, now that she thought about it, she had the privilege of knowing the two most remarkable men in the world.  
__________

Once again Kerri sat next to the man she loved, but this time she didn’t sleep. She smiled as she watched him sleeping, finally able to rest comfortably. He had been taken off most of the monitors earlier in the evening and had been moved to a private room. It was relatively quiet and dark in the room, and they were finally alone for a brief moment.

She fussed around him, straightening his blanket, fluffing his pillow, smoothing his sheets, and generally busying herself in a slightly misguided effort to make him more comfortable. When she had done everything she could think of she became very still and just smiled at him. Finally, when she could no longer resist, she bent over him and kissed him gently on the forehead, grateful to God that his skin was cool against her lips. As she slowly pulled away, she was surprised to see him looking at her.

“Hi,” she whispered as she took his hand in hers.

“Hurt,” he mouthed as he made a weak attempt to draw his hand away.

“Oh, I’m sorry! There was an IV in the top of your hand.” She tenderly kissed the top of the small bandage that covered the place where the IV had been removed. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

“Thirsty,” he said through parched lips.

After helping him with the water glass, Kerri sat back and stared at him momentarily. She had always enjoyed just looking at him, but never more so than at this moment.

He frowned as he looked back. “You look . . . aw . . . ful,” he said.

She smiled as she once again took his hand in hers. She closed her eyes as she brought his hand to her face and held it gently against her cheek. “And you have never looked more beautiful,” she sighed.

__________________________________________________________

When Kerri finally left Renfield’s bedside, he was again sleeping comfortably. The antidote that Fraser and the rest had found worked like a miracle. Renfield’s temperature had begun dropping immediately, and as his temperature lowered, his blood pressure rose. Now both were nearly normal, and Kerri felt she could finally leave him for a few hours.

Exhausted, she made her way slowly out of his room. Waiting just down the hall, leaning wearily against the wall, was Benton. After all these hours Kerri finally looked at him, really took a good, hard look at him. She had never seen him in such a state. He hadn’t changed from the uniform he was wearing yesterday and now it was dirty and wrinkled. As she came closer she could see what she was sure were dried bloodstains on the red serge fabric.

She smiled slightly as she came to stand by him. “You really should have gone on home. You didn’t need to wait for me. You must be so tired,” she sighed as she collapsed into one of the chairs lined against the wall.

Fraser sat next to her. "No more so than you. Is he still doing all right?”

“He’s sleeping. The doctors say that he’ll have to have," she shuddered slightly at the thought, "dialysis again sometime tomorrow, but, other than that, they're reasonably sure he’ll suffer no lasting effects.” Kerri hung her head and hesitated for just a moment. Before she could continue, Fraser interrupted her.

“I’m sorry," he whispered.

“Sorry?”

“All of this should have never happened. I should have been able to identify what was happening long before," he shook his head. "I let my personal feelings cloud my--"

“Benton Fraser! Don’t you dare trivialize what you did for Renfield! You saved his life!” Kerri was adamant. She could not believe that this man could second-guess himself this way. She looked him in the eye for the first time since Renfield had gotten sick. To her complete surprise, they were bright with tears.

Kerri took his hand and squeezed it tightly. “Benton, what is it?” she whispered.

Fraser composed himself quickly and the color of his eyes changed from deep blue to light gray as Kerri watched. She had once told Renfield that Benton often reminded her of a chameleon, the color of his eyes changing as often as his moods. She had seen them light gray when he was calm, dark gray with anger, light blue when he was playful and bright azure blue when he was upset. Often the color of his eyes was the only indication to the outside world what he was feeling.

At Kerri’s intense scrutiny, Fraser turned away. “It’s nothing,” he lied.

“Benton, please. You’re upset, and it’s more than just about Renfield. Please," she pleaded, "you've done so much for us, maybe there's something I can do to help. Please tell me?”

Fraser sighed deeply. “I honestly wish I could be more like him.”

It took her several moments to realize to whom he was referring. “Renfield?” she asked, shocked.

“I’ve been watching you both. Not just the last twenty four hours, although what’s happened has really brought it all home to me,” he whispered.

“I don’t understand.”

Fraser turned away from her. “I envy the way you love each other.” He spoke so softly she could barely hear him. Kerri grabbed his hand and pulled him back to face her. 

“I can’t imagine anyone as perfect as you would envy anyone,” she teased, and immediately wished she hadn’t. “I’m sorry, Benton, I didn’t mean to make light of what you said.” She took a deep breath and finally said something that had been on her mind for a very long time. “You and Meg are having problems, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“I’m sorry.” She debated for several moments whether or not to comment further. Finally she decided that he would not have told her any of this if he didn’t want to talk about it. “I think I’ve suspected something for a long time. Would you like to talk about it?”

“No. Yes," he sighed. "I watched you with him. Both of you seem to . . . ” he thought about it before he continued. “You seem so connected to each other. And you don’t hesitate to express how you feel. I envy that.”

Kerri smiled. “Do you know how proud Renfield would be to know that there was something about him you envied?” Her smile suddenly vanished. “And how sad?”

__________________________________________________________

Fraser sat next to Kerri with his Stetson on his lap. “We’re both awfully tired, and I’m very dirty. What say I take you home?”

“Before I let you change the subject, and we never talk about this again, I’m going to risk our friendship. Benton, please tell me about it?”

He sighed so deeply Kerri was not sure he would continue. She watched as he tightened his grip on his hat. “I can’t be what Meg wants. I can’t love her enough. There’s something in me that keeps me from loving someone enough to keep them.”

Kerri couldn’t let him continue without comment. “Benton, just because you’ve lost people you’ve loved doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. Renfield’s told me a little bit about, well, about Victoria. There wasn’t anything you could have done to change her or make her stay. What happened between the two of you was certainly not your fault.” It suddenly occurred to her exactly what he’d meant. “Is Meg planning on --”

“-- leaving me? Yes.”

You could have knocked her over with a feather. It had been a very long twenty-four hours and just as she thought things were almost back to normal, this had to happen. “God, Benton, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s my fault,” he hung his head. “I just so afraid to allow myself to love anyone that much again.” He stared at his Stetson for several moments before he continued. “You both make loving each other look so, oh, I don’t know, so easy.”

Kerri bit her lower lip and was lost in thought for a minute before she took a deep breath. She had obviously reached a momentous decision.

“Benton, I’m going to tell you something that I have never even told Renny.” Fraser could tell by her tone of voice that this wasn’t easy for her. “When I was twenty I met the love of my life. He was my anthropology professor. I loved him so deeply I would have done anything, and I do mean anything, for him. There were many things about him that I was blind to. Even though my friends told me to be careful I was head over heels in love, and as far as I was concerned he could do no wrong. We’d been together for about six months when he asked me to marry him. We even went so far as to buy rings and begin planning a huge wedding. I went through my days literally walking on air. I couldn’t wait to hear his voice, to see his face, to be held in his arms.

“Then one day I accidentally found out he was keeping a secret. He was already married. Not only that but he also had a two-year-old baby. When I confronted him he told me that it was over with her, that he only stayed with her because of the child. He said that they would be getting divorced, and I believed him.” Kerri sighed so deeply her whole body shuddered. “Benton, I was the other woman in this man’s life for the better part of a year, all the time fooling myself into believing that he was telling me the truth, that he would leave her for me. It wasn’t until I found out that he had gotten a third woman pregnant that I finally realized what an asshole he was.

“That’s when I went to work for Walter Scott as a private contractor and began traveling for the RCMP. I ran for eight years, Benton. eight years of running all over North America, from the shame and the guilt. And running from love.” She stopped to catch her breath and then began to smile. “Then one day I ran smack into Constable Renfield Turnbull and I just quit running. It hurt like hell for about two days before I couldn’t fight it any longer, and I allowed myself to love him.”

She lowered her voice to a whisper as several young nurses strolled by and giggled as they ogled the handsome man in the Mountie suit. “The point of all this is that if you love Meg, and I think you do, you have to stop running from the fear of being hurt. Renfield once told me that with great love always comes that possibility of great pain. But isn’t it much worse to never risk the pain by never allowing yourself to really care for someone? To hide your heart and never allow yourself to really live? What’s that old saying, ‘tis better to have loved and lost than . . . ”

“ . . . to never have loved at all.” Fraser finished the sentiment. “That may very well be true,” he sighed, “but what if that person simply cannot return your love?”

__________________________________________________________

Fraser dropped Kerri off at the bookshop and spent the next few minutes driving in no particular direction. When he finally admitted to himself that he just could not face Meg, and what he knew she had to tell him, he went to the Consulate.

Ignoring the disarray caused by their search for the source of the poison, Fraser made his way through the building, to the office in the back, where he had long ago decided to seclude himself. He sighed as he surveyed the devastation in this room too.

“Did a bang up job of destroying everything, didn't you Son?”

There were few people in the world that Fraser wanted to see less than his father, but he apparently had no choice. “Hello, Dad.”

“That young Constable doing okay?” Fraser Sr. asked.

“Yes.”

“To bad he had to take a bullet for you, son. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“Well, metaphorically speaking, it's a good thing he will survive.”

“Well, you don't have to get all moody, you know.”

“I'm sorry. I'm tired, dirty and in no mood to bicker.” Fraser's tone did not at all indicate that he was indeed sorry.

“Having a little spat, are we?”

“I wasn't aware that we were arguing, yet.”

“I wasn't referring to us, to you and me.”

“Ah, are you speaking metaphorically again?”

“I was speaking of you and Margaret.”

“You can stop right there, Dad. It's none of your business.” Fraser walked on past his father's ghost and opened the closet door, where he took out his spare uniform.

“In my day, we would not be caught dead in a dirty uniform.”

“As I recall, that's exactly how you were caught dead.”

“Well, that was certainly uncalled for!” Fraser Sr. responded with hurt feelings.

Fraser sighed as he prepared to change clothes. “I'm sorry Dad, that was uncalled for. And if you must know, yes, Meg and I are having problems.”

“Nip it, Son.”

Fraser looked up after he had laid the clean uniform across the back of his desk chair. “Excuse me?”

“Nip it in the bud. Don't allow your anger to get the best of you. That's what I taught you.”

“No, as I remember, you taught me how to track caribou across sheer ice.”

“Well, I should have taught you other things too. One of which is that you should not let anger get the best of you.”

“I'm not angry!”

“Then maybe you should be.”

“Well, now that was extremely profound! Do you want me to be angry or not?”

“It's up to you, Son.”

“Exasperating. Plain and simple. Exasperating,” Fraser muttered.

“Look, Son. Do you love her?” the father asked.

“Yes,” the son whispered.

“Then for God's sake, tell her! Women want to hear these things. Though for the life of me, I don't understand why.”

Fraser stared at his father with eyes wide in shock. Finally he found his voice, “I can't believe that you may have just given me some advice I can actually use!”

“Any time, Son. Any time.”  
__________

When Meg awoke that morning she knew instantly that Ben had not come home at all. She was at once extremely grateful, but also extremely sad. She had finally pushed him completely away. She hadn't meant to, not intentionally anyway. But she knew that he had finally gotten tired of trying and had just given up.

She prepared for work, thinking of all the things that she needed to say to him. Before she left the house, she made a quick call to the hospital and inadvertently discovered where Ben had spent the night.

“This is RCMP Inspector Thatcher. I’d like to check on the condition of Constable Turnbull.”

The nurse on the other end of the line, Angie, according to her nametag, smiled. Going into his room again would be a pleasure, since every time she went in there she got to feast her eyes on the gorgeous Mountie who was standing guard over the patient.

“If you’ll hold just a moment, I’ll see if he’s awake.” She was extremely disappointed to discover that the gorgeous one had left. She so hoped she could get just one last glimpse of him. “I’m sorry, Inspector Thatcher,” Angie reported when she returned to the phone, “Constable Turnbull is still sleeping. I've only been on duty a short while, but I know he spent a restful night. The other Mountie filled me in when I reported for work.”

“The other Mountie?” Meg asked.

“Yes, he spent the night here. Constable Turnbull has had someone watching over him ever since he was admitted, or so I’ve heard.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Meg slowly hung up the phone. She should have been there too, Turnbull was her Constable, after all. But more than that she shouldn’t have left Ben to sit in that hospital all alone. Meg knew that Turnbull’s illness had affected him very deeply and she should have stayed by his side. She sighed as she thought that once again she had let him down. That certainly seemed to be the way of things lately.

Looking at the clock next on her side of the bed, she realized she had plenty of time before she needed to be at the Consulate, and she hoped she knew where she could find Ben.  
__________________________________________________________

She found him where she thought she would, at the Top Notch Coffee Shop, just around the corner from the Consulate. He often came here, after he and Dief went for their early morning constitutional, before reporting for work.

She saw him, sitting in a back booth, facing away from the street. He didn’t see her as she walked through the crowded café, so she was able to watch him unobserved.

He lingered over what she assumed was a cup of tea, since he rarely drank coffee. She smiled at the back of his head. He needed a haircut, but yet she wished he didn’t have to have it so severely short. She loved the way it curled on the back of his neck when it was just a tad too long. In fact, she thought, if asked she would have to admit to wondering what it would feel like to run her fingers through his hair if he could just let it grow.

After standing there for several moments, Meg took a deep breath and approached his booth.

She stood next to the speckled pink Formica table for a split second before he looked up. “Good morning,” she whispered as he looked up at her. The look on his face broke her heart. It was a look of a man who had been betrayed.

“May I sit down?” she whispered.

“Of course,” he replied with very little enthusiasm.

“I called the hospital,” Meg said nervously as she took a seat across from him, “to check on Renfield’s condition.”

“He’s doing very well.”

“So they told me,” she sighed deeply. “They also told me you spent the night there . . . ”

“I was concerned about him. I wanted to be sure he was all right. I thought I should be there in case he woke up, he shouldn’t have had to be alone, and Kerri needed some rest. It seemed like the least I could do.”

“And you didn’t really want to come home,” Meg hung her head. It wasn’t really a question, because she thought she already knew the answer.

“I didn’t think you would want me there,” he finally replied.

Her head snapped up in surprise. “That’s what you think?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?” he asked matter-of-factly. “For being who you are? For being someone who puts their career before relationships?” He took a drink of his tea and frowned very slightly. It was cold. “That’s not something you should apologize for, Meg. Duty is very important to both of us.” He hesitated to say the rest.

His hesitation gave her the chance she needed to say what she had come here to say. Without meeting his eyes she blurted out, “I requested a transfer to Ottawa.”

“I know.”

“You know?” Meg was astounded.

“Yes. Superintendent McIntyre called from Headquarters in Ottawa while you were out last week. He wanted some information faxed to him immediately.”

“You've known all along?" She'd hurt him even more than she'd realized. "God, Ben I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to find out that way.”

“Exactly how were you planning on my finding out? A 'Dear Benton' letter by Express mail?” he had trouble hiding his sarcasm. “Like the poison – it’s in the mail?” He swallowed the anger building inside. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered gently, “but I’ve got something to say, and then,” she sighed, “if you want me to, I’ll go. I’ll accept the transfer and I will go to Ottawa.” She tried to get him to look at her, but something in his tea mug demanded his undivided attention. 

“I’ve always considered my career the most important thing in my life. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I had long ago decided that I would not allow anything else get in the way of my success.” She sighed deeply as she watched him stare into his mug. “And then Renfield collapsed.” That suddenly got his attention. His eyes were so blue with pain she wanted to cry. “I watched Kerri doing everything she knew how to save him. And all she knew how to do was love him.” A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. “And that was enough. The love they felt for each other kept him alive until you could find the antidote.”

“I saw that too,” he admitted softly.

“That could very easily have been you. And I realized that I don’t know how to love that much. My love would have not been enough to keep you alive.” More and more tears slid down her cheeks. “But I also realized that my career didn't amount to a hill of beans if I didn't have you to share it with. I realized that you were the most important thing in my life. I couldn’t have gone on if you had suffered and . . . and died.” She wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand and sniffed self-consciously. “I don’t want to go to Ottawa, I don’t want to do anything if you’re not with me. There is nothing more important to me than you. I know that now. I love you, Ben, and I had hoped . . . ” She closed her eyes and sighed, unable to look at him any longer. Finally, with nothing else to say, she slowly scooted out of the booth. 

“What?” he whispered.

“What?”

“You had hoped what?”

Standing next to the gaudy pink table, Meg exhaled deeply. “I’d hoped that maybe we could take a lesson from Renfield and Kerri and learn how to love each other more completely, without reservations . . . But I guess I have really blown our chances.” She turned to go but was stopped in her tracks when Fraser grabbed her arm.

“Kerri told me that if I really love you, I should stop being afraid of being hurt. That if I want our relationship to continue I should just tell you.” He searched her eyes for a full minute before he continued. “I love you, Meg," he whispered as he took her hand. Then, for the first time in his life, he was able to ask the question that no one had ever before given him the opportunity to ask, "please don't leave me?"

Meg stood frozen in place, unsure and afraid to move. She watched in amazement as the man who had always been embarrassed by public shows of affection, stood and drew her into his arms. “I need you so much,” he sighed into her hair. “We both need each other so much.”

The End


End file.
